Nurse The Hate

Friday, April 28, 2017

Nurse the Hate: The Incident of The Leaf Pile

One of my associates, The Enabler, recently responded to the
annoying social media game of “I’ve seen 10 of these bands, one is a lie” game
with his own post. He wrote “Here are 10
Cowslinger shows I attended, one of which is a lie”. I am certain that my associate’s legal team
advised him to insert the caveat “one is a lie” as each one of these stories
was filled with illegal or at the least behavior with extremely poor judgement
attached. It was a rather eye opening
experience to see these accounts recapped with unflinching honesty stacked one
on top of the other. Why some sort of
authority figure didn’t stop us, or at least attempt to stop us is rather bewildering. We had absolutely no regard for rules of any
kind. This is a policy that has only
become reinforced with age and experience.

I had forgotten about one of these stories. The Enabler’s recap read as follows; “Charleston,
IL. Venue is the Dungeon, party at Gram and Kit’s follows. Ike Turner’s Bitch
opens for Cowslingers. Great show! My attorney has advised me not to reveal
most of the events or people’s names from the time of the opening song to the
last moments of the party. However, at one moment I needed clarity from the party
so a walked outside and sat on a curb facing the south. Soon after I was joined
by Greg. I noticed across the street there appeared to be people wearing goat
head masks and long robes. Realizing this could be a misinterpretation of
reality I asked Greg if he could confirm. He too needed reassurance on what he
was witnessing and for a brief moment we both felt secure and safe in our
shared reality. However, the evening was to take a dire turn as Krusty
appeared, looking across the street and suggested bottlerockets as a diversion.
Reluctantly we concurred, only to regret our decision once the poorly aimed
fireworks started the Satanists’ leaf pile on fire.”

As I recall it was an autumn evening. Things had started to get very bizarre in the
party. I remember Krusty attempted to
look nonchalant while in the kitchen and decided to lean his hand down on the
counter. He had greatly misjudged the distance
between his standing position and the counter and had ended up extended almost
in a 45 degree angle. He could have torn
muscles in his torso he was so far stretched out. He was then stuck trying to pretend that he
meant to do this. As visiting rock
royalty, one does not want to look like a buffoon after all. Unfortunately for Krusty, both Bobby and I
saw him do this from across the room. It
has been well over a decade since this incident, and Bobby and I will still do
the “Krusty lean” whenever possible.

I walked outside in an effort to “keep it all together” as
might be said in an old Dragnet episode.
There I found The Enabler seated on the curb. I sat down as we discussed how odd things had
turned when he brought to my attention the goings on in the house across the
street. As God is my witness, we saw
three people walk by the window. Each
one of them were in a variation of a goat’s head mask with flowing robes. Skin was visible as the robes were being worn
in an open style. I can certainly understand
The Enabler wanting to confirm what he saw as one does not expect to see some
sort of Satanist swinger party in a small bungalow in Charleston Illinois. That being said, if someone were to say to me
“Hey, outside of Chicago, where in Illinois should I go to attend a satanic
swinger’s party?” my answer would be “Charleston Illinois”. (And I mean that as a compliment)

When Krusty walked outside to see us squinting at the Satanists,
he was maybe more unnerved than we were.
His suggestion of shooting fireworks in their direction as a diversion
made a great deal of sense at the time.
Clearly for us to avoid being seized and then tied up as some terrible
human sacrifice as these people had an orgy in our blood was a bad scenario. A series of large explosions in their area
would allow us to calmly walk back into the party without any chance of being
forced into servitude. In retrospect, we
could have just walked back inside instead of sending these shoddily made
Mexican fireworks their way. We should
not have been surprised when the one rocket plunged into a pile of leaves next
to their home and started that fire. We
were though. We had just gotten too
caught up in the enthusiasm of Krusty’s plan.

One would think that we would have done the responsible
thing and put the fire out. We didn’t. We ran.
It was like being 14 again. Well,
like being 14 if you had a van with out of state plates parked in front of the
crime scene and needed to eventually go back and get it. There were some police sent to look for us as
squad cars tore up and down the neighborhood roads. We had to keep jumping behind hedges. I don’t know if the Satanists had to explain
their situation in detail to the police when they notified them that two
cowboys had set their yard on fire. “Hello? Police?
Yes, I am here at my home just about ready to have intercourse with five
or so people when some cowboys set our leaves on fire. I had to put my goat’s head mask down and put
the damn fire out!”

Eventually we got tired of walking around and went back to
the party. The owner of the house,
Graham, was in a Mexican wrestling mask hunched over in the kitchen eating
beans out of a pot. The music was really
loud. Some guy was passed out in a
chair. The lights were off over at the Satanists
place. Yeah, it was a good show.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Nurse the Hate: I, Wine Judge

I have accepted an invitation to be a judge at the
International Wine and Spirits Competition based out of the London area. First, let me say I know what you are
thinking and I agree with you. Why
couldn’t an international wine competition based out of London find someone
qualified on that continent instead of a jackass like you getting
involved? I have no idea. I know their spec material states “The IWSC
boasts the most highly qualified and trained group of international judges of
any wine and spirits competition.” It
seems unlikely they are talking about me.

I will be judging some French wines. Let me say that I feel badly for these poor
French artisans. Perhaps they are
farming land which has been in their family for hundreds of years. On the wall of their humble farmhouse is a
faded black and white photo of a man with a prodigious mustache standing next
to a mule. It is Pépère Jean-Claude,
shortly before he fought for Le Resistance.
It was only through his suffering and dogged effort that the family did
not have to sell this land. It was his
son Pierre that modernized the winemaking with new oak casks and education in
the latest advancements. There were many
lean years but the family saw themselves as tending this land, not owning it. Each vintage is a gamble against nature and The Hand of God. With one hail storm, it can be all swept away. Through grace and sweat they have created this
singular wine representative of place and time.
It is their unique voice.

Unfortunately for them some American jagoff, completely
fatigued after playing a rock show thousands of miles away and then jetlagged
beyond belief, will then be “judging” them.
I imagine I will be fueled up on insanely expensive coffee and cranky
after a long train ride to the facility.
I will lean my head to the glass, slightly hungover after spending too
much time at a touristy pub only hours ago, and pronounce like a Roman Emperor “This
wine is… a bit clumsy on the nose!”. And
like that, their multi-generational effort will be discarded as my brief
attention span has moved on to something else.
It’s a damn shame, but I don’t know what I can do to avoid it at this
point. The die has been cast.

I know there will be a series of “international incidents”
at this event. I have a much less rigid
set of ideas concerning a variety of topics than our friends in the UK. I am anticipating people from the event
becoming very frustrated with me every 20 minutes or so. I am willing to bet me saying things like “Hey
man? What are you so uptight about?”
probably won’t help. It’s not their
fault at all. They have already sent a
very thorough set of instructions that I am to follow for each aspect of this
event. I haven’t offered so much as a
glance at them. My plan is very much to
show up and see what happens, which would seem to be the exact opposite of the
five attachments I have been sent.

My direct contact for this event has been very
friendly. This is even though I continue
to send him very perplexing emails such as asking if there will be a “IWSC
Welcomes Greg Miller” banner to greet me at the shuttle area. I also have some concern in that when I asked
him about the dress code and wondering if it was OK to wear a Nine Pound Hammer
work shirt with a pair of Chucks, I wasn’t kidding. Oh well, it’s either that or play up my American
roots and do the Uncle Sam On Stilts outfit.
Wish me luck.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Nurse the Hate: Hate United Airlines Again

I hate to write you and add to your problems. I
have been watching with great interest the consumer blowback on your new
"physical confrontation" style of customer service. No
matter what the public might whine about on Social media, you certainly taught
that Dr. Dao a little lesson. Kudos to not resorting to Tasers but
instead giving him a "real good working over" by your goons. That
certainly sent a message. I have increased my weight lifting in
preparation for a team of thugs trying to rip me from my seat in the near
future. In a strange way, I look forward to the challenge.

The reason for my correspondence is the little matter of a 4.5-hour
delay going into San Francisco on Friday April 21st and subsequent 16-hour
delay on Sunday-Monday April 24. As I understand it United
continued to book flights into San Francisco without adjustments to scheduling despite the airport launching a
construction project. This project is on a runway which created limited access for takeoffs/landings and hence delays. I
am assuming the airport authority mentioned it to you and didn't just show up
one morning with a bunch of guys and jackhammers closing runway A-16. I
have it pictured as a meeting at a big conference table where someone said
"Does anyone want water? Coffee?" before mentioning this
major logistical obstacle. Even just an email that contained the
phrase "your flights are going to be running really late" was
probably sent with one of those red flags that people tend to overuse in
offices with announcements like "Melissa's birthday cake at 3:00p in the
lunch room!". Regardless, I'm thinking someone at United knew
about this situation well in advance.

If I may continue to speculate, I am also thinking the same
people that get enormous bonus checks based on earnings decided "Sure,
everyone that flies into or out of that airport on one of our planes is going
to get screwed, but if earnings go down, I might not get my quarterly bonus
check to buy myself a mink tanning bed." I, like most
consumers, have noted your exciting new policy of not even pretending to care
about customers any longer. On one hand, I dig what you are
doing. Who doesn't love transparency? Yet because of this
lack of transparency in letting me know I had no prayer of arriving to my
destination as per my ticket I purchased, I can't help but feeling
"boned". (Is that too strong?)

While getting into SFO on Friday at 130a instead
of 900p was bad, being left for dead on Sunday was worse. With
a straight face your representatives gave me the option of flying to
O'Hare overnight, landing at 6am and then waiting until 245p to get
back to Cleveland. I think having nine
hours to kill in O’Hare after staying up all night was a bit much. My other presented option was waiting in San
Francisco until 145p Monday (which left at 310p by the way) without a
hotel. That was when the woman at the customer service desk smirked
at me. Do they tell them to do that in training? I did
appreciate that I wasn't pistol whipped by goons though. Thank you
for that.

Faced with those two options, I decided to stay overnight. Your
people refused to get me a hotel voucher but did provide me with a coupon to
call a travel service (that you probably operate under a shell company) that
told me that the only hotel available was the one star "Sunshine
Motel". I believe that the Sunshine
figured prominently in a string of recent prostitution murders, so my interest
in that property was “limited”. I hung up on the travel experts and
promptly booked myself into the allegedly unavailable Westin ALoft property nearby which even picked
me up via shuttle. That seemed like a better option than sleeping on
a piece of cardboard in the hallway of SFO like a Calcutta orphan. I shouldn't complain. Certainly,
at one point, I would have landed a job at Cinnabon, met a nice gal, and
settled down on our combined piece of cardboard in Terminal Three. Yet,
I still harbored the dream of going home as per the ticket you sold me.

I am now sitting in a middle seat next to a couple of adult
men penned in like a veal. I will land at 1030p, another full day
lost to your airline's footloose and fancy free operational policy. I
am hoping you will refund my ticket cost and hotel stay for last night as it
was, by any objective opinion, completely your fault all of this occurred. I
understand that logistical issues occur, but I didn't buy a ticket for
yesterday at "elevenish" to get back to Cleveland "at some
point" despite that being the reality of the situation when you sold me
the fantasy airline ticket in the first place.

Can you do me a solid here? You jammed it in me
hard and now I am very sore.

Monday, April 24, 2017

Nurse the Hate: Hate United Airlines 3

Had I only known what United Airlines was capable of, I
would have certainly fought for those Cheez-Its Friday night…Stories of travel disaster are sort of
like stories about peculiar dreams.They are crushingly boring unless it happened to you.Yet, I think this is a pretty good one,
so stick with me.

Flying from San Francisco to Cleveland on United is no
picnic.There is only one direct
flight each way.The return flight
is at the horribly inconvenient time of 145p, which results in landing at about
930p after the time change.This
leads me to have to make some grim decisions.There is a flight that leaves at 11:11p and connects through
Chicago at 550am to Cleveland for an 8am arrival.This provides the illusion of saving time and arriving back
at home crisp and fresh, ready to take on the day.In reality you arrive like a torn out dish towel, more
animal than man.Still, in an
effort to be as productive as possible I decided to go that way.

As you may recall from an earlier post, I was delayed on my
trip coming out here “due to air traffic control”.There was a wild rumor that electricity was out in San
Francisco.Hey, what can you do?Electricty is working great today!As far as I can tell, the
infrastructure here in the Bay Area looks tip top.So I entered into this evening’s redeye flight with a
positive attitude.I had to kill
hours upon hours waiting for the flight, but with the sheer amount of time I
would save flying at night, I’d be way ahead!My enthusiasm began to wane when the push alerts for my
flight being delayed began to arrive.

It was a gorgeous sunny day in San Francisco today.It was very confusing why so many
flights on United were being delayed.I then got an alert that my flight to Chicago would be delayed to the point
that I would miss my Cleveland connection.The last time that happened I had to rent a Hyundai at
O’Hare and make a sleepless drive at 85 mph though Indiana where a cop pulled
me over and said “I never want to see you again” after I offered him a bite of
my egg bagel sandwich as a reward for letting me out of a speeding ticket.I called my good friends at United to
discuss a flight that I could take as I would miss the one they had booked me
one initially.Great news!They could get me on a flight… at
245pm.

So my scenario was this… I could either fly overnight to
Chicago where I would arrive and have to kill 8 hours and 45 minutes in the
airport.With that much time, I
could probably have interviewed for and secured a job at Chili’s, and then had my
first shift.There is no doubt
some upside there.Chili’s has a
great reputation.I could also
have stayed up all night and then rented that Hyundai for the suicide drive to
Ohio for a approximate 230p arrival after dropping off the rental/getting my
car.Who doesn’t like to have the
chance to really open up a Hyundai Sonata on those pristine Indiana roads?Instead I decided to eliminate the
chance for United to fuck me like a stranger in the ass and go for the direct
flight tomorrow.I had to cut my
losses.

I then sashayed on over to the customer service desk in the
hopes of bullying my way into a hotel voucher.There were about 50 people there in various stages of losing
their minds.Still, I was thinking
a logical person employed by United would say “Wow!We really have fucked you over hard twice in the last three
days.Let me get you a hotel my
man!”.Surprisingly, this is not
what happened.I went to the
representative and noted I had been fucked like a stranger in the ass all
weekend by the airline.She told
me that I could have a coupon for a discount hotel booking website.I mentioned how this had been their
fault, so perhaps they could pick up the tab. She said it wasn’t their fault as
it wasn’t mechanical in nature.Well, what was the problem?“Due to air traffic control”.This was when I asked for a definition of what that term meant.

The woman at the counter then told me that “The US
government determines when we can take off and land the planes.It is out of our control. And with the
construction project on the runway…”A-ha!I knew it!This was when I countered with “Yes,
but it wasn’t like United Airlines didn’t know about a planned construction
project.You could have adjusted
flight schedules accordingly instead of letting everyone book knowing full well
that you’d miss all these connections.That was 100% in your control.That’s unethical even for United, and I say that knowing that you just
pistol whipped some senior citizen.”That was when she just stared at me and smirked.

Now a laugh I could deal with, but the smirk is tough.That’s the expression to let me know
that I have no power and she considers it amusing that I am trapped in SF with
no hotel and no way to get them to be held accountable.I went from being inquisitive to very
annoyed.“Excuse me.Why are you smirking at me?”Sir. Sir.I am a human being.Sometimes I am happy and I need to show my emotions.“So me being trapped here without a
place to sleep makes you happy?”Sir.I am smiling at something
else.“What are you smiling
at?”Sir, I don’t have to tell you
that.

This was when the dynamic really changed between us.She was sitting behind one of those
dramatic United counters with the logos.She was just smirking away.“Are you under the impression that this counter is a moat and I can’t
get over this?Is that what you
think?Because I am 100% confident
I can, and I know that dude over there that looks like Jessie Ventura can
too…”That was when the Jessie
Ventura guy said “You bet I can!”. So she decided to do what any customer
service rep in that situation would do.She went on break.The
crowd really went crazy then. A
promise was made to get “The Supervisor”.

I waited for “The Supervisor” for about 45 minutes with a
dozen other people.Six of them
were beyond reason with rage.They
had ceased to be humans.They had
some horrible story about not connecting through to Philly and now had to stay
at the airport until 345p tomorrow and United wouldn’t get them hotels.“The Supervisor” never came.Frankly, I don’t think that
person exists.I think it was a
way to put the crazy people on ice.I called the coupon number for my superdeal discount hotel.They had one available for me.It was a one star lodging.I didn’t know one star lodging even
existed.I would have stayed
there, but I didn’t have a prostitute I was going to murder or have any cocaine
I needed to smoke, so I thought that might not be the right lodging for
me.Instead I called a hotel
directly and negotiated a discounted rate at a place United said was sold out.

Tomorrow is a new day.I know United Airlines is going to fuck me over in a way I can’t even
imagine yet.I have been running
scenarios through my head, but I know they are working on something really
great.The gloves are off
now.They have stopped pretending
to give even a single fuck.There
will be no coupon, no rebate, or even a sorry offered to me.They are going to continue to just
dominate me until I lay on the floor submissively and cry.Only then will they provide the basic
service for which I have already paid them.I need to see if this hotel shuttle will swing by some
bondage shop in the morning so I can get my Gimp outfit.I know they booked me back row in the
middle.That Gimp outfit will make
that flight nice and comfy.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Nurse the Hate: Hate United Airlines 2

I am currently padding around my well appointed Union Square
hotel room in San Francisco in my underwear.Having purchased a large bottle of Mike Hess Brewing India
Pale Ale Grapefruit Solis at a corner store was a good idea.Discovering I didn’t have a bottle
opener in the room and using the handle of the dresser proved to be a
bad idea as the bottle exploded over my pant legs, hence my now more relaxed
attire.I considered donning the
complimentary hotel fluffy bathrobe, but I thought it a bit much.I am quite hungry and wouldn’t mind
filling out a loan application to see if I could buy some room service.A club sandwich at this hotel costs as
much as a late model domestic used car.However, I don’t want some kind of weird scene when the overworked
Mexican busboy delivers the food and I am the creep in a robe that answers the
door. Best just to leave the whole situation alone.

I am on a real sleepless jag.I might have a physical collapse. I arrived last night at 1:38 am, or 4:38 am my body clock
time.Our good friends at United
Airlines once again dashed my hopes and dreams at O’Hare Airport stranding me
there on a 4.5 hour delay Friday night.My absolute favorite part of United Airlines “customer service” is now
they have stopped with even the pretense of giving one single fuck.Without a real explanation they delayed
the flight numerous times until announcing everyone would have to line up to be
re-seated.The rationale was never
explained.Thus an entire plane
full of Boeing 777 passengers had to line up single file and go one by one to
A) complain about the delay B) complain about their new seat location C) and
make idle threats.

The official reason for the delay was “air traffic control”,
which I think is an airport version of “because we said so”.It was never made clear.When they announced a delay for the
sixth time, United brought out the big guns.An elderly Asian man rolled out a small metal cart.Without any fanfare or announcement he
opened up two drawers and opened a box with Cheez-Its and one box with Nutrigrain
bars.Then he silently walked away
from the cart much as you would if feeding hyenas at the zoo.On the side of the cart was a United
logo with the phrase “Enjoy a snack”.Most people had given up all self respect by this point and descended on
the food like jackals.There were
approximately 20 bags of Cheez-Its for 300 passengers.It was a snack food version of
The Octagon.

Now I’m not saying I don’t appreciate this small
gesture.However, I am thinking
that maybe 4.5 hours of my time might be worth more than the opportunity of
fighting off a woman in yoga pants for a .78 cent bag of crackers.How about some frequent flier miles or
maybe a comp upgrade in my future?That’s not United’s game though.Their move is to give you the absolute bare minimum for failure to
provide service and hope you don’t bitch.If you do, they will offer another small premium.This will continue as they ratchet up
the line of defense at each level until people tire of the struggle.After last week’s episode with that old
man getting his ass kicked, I would think twice about complaining about not
getting any Cheez-Its.

My 6:58p departure left at about 11:15p.My plan was to arrive here in San Francisco at my little
wine class crisp and refreshed on Saturday morning so I could enhance
my admittedly slim chance of passing the Impossible Wine Test this June.Instead I went to sleep around 230a to
get up at 7a so I could walk into a windowless conference room to blind taste 6
wines and provide in depth tasting notes.I would describe my condition as “tired as fuck”.I knew I was doing poorly when the best
I could figure out on the first three wines was they tasted like “red
wines”.I will also tell you that
if you haven’t slept, a lecture on soil compositions in Sonoma County is not
what you are looking for to rivet your attention.As I am picking up the expense of the flight and hotel just
so I can try to soak in this information, I feel a bit “disappointed” in United
Airlines for failing to live up to their end of the bargain in getting me here
at a reasonable time.I thought
about showing up at the airport for my sure-to-be-delayed return flight in
yellow shooting sunglasses and a tire iron smashing up their Customer Service
area while screaming “See what you get United?You see what you get for fucking a stranger in the ass?This is what you get!This is what you get for fucking a
stranger in the ass!”.However
after seeing the video of the goons they have employed deep in the bowels of
the airport, I thought again.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Nurse the Hate: The Sick Sister

I received an email today from a woman I know through business, who is a relative stranger. This is the third one of these scam emails I have received in the last month. It's always the same hustle too. These people must go to a scam seminar or something. Why do they always do the same script at the same time?

I decided not to look upon this as an annoyance, but rather as an opportunity.

Good to
hear from you, I'm Currently in UK due to some urgent matters to help my sick
sister, she was diagnosed with (Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia) a type of Blood
Cancer and had been undergoing treatment lately.

The hospital
management is demanding for a deposit before they can carry out the surgery
operation to save her life and I traveled down here with little money because I
never expected things to be the way it is right now. Can you assist me with a
loan ? I'll surely pay back as soon as I get back home. Please, let me know if
you can be of help. I’ll be happy to hear from you soon regarding my request
and please remember to keep this private.

Good
Lord Karen! That sounds like a real powderkeg of a situation. First
your sister has that lion attack while on safari, and now this? I told
her not to quit that job she had before that trip. Even though it was in
the sex trade, at least she had medical benefits.

As
you know I am stuck here on the pony farm having to deal with that rash they
all broke out with. All day long I’m applying ointment to the
“undercarriages” of those damn ponies. I never should have sold the
alpacas.

I
can’t get out of here to get to Western Union. You know what might work
better? I could give you my checking account info with the passwords and
stuff and you could just make the transfer to your account. Do you want
to do that? It seems like every second counts on this thing!

Since you can not
make Western Union transfer due to your busy schedule kindly send me the
checking account info and passwords. But if you'll be able to make the transfer
via Western Union please kindly go ahead.

I
just spoke to my bank. I have them ready to make the transfer to you but
apparently I need to get your checking information with your passwords.
Please send to me that information at once so I may go ahead.

I
have just spoken to my bank. They suggest that I send a credit to your
credit card. All I need to do that is your account number, PIN, and
security code. Can you send that to me at once? I am VERY worried
about your sister.

Karen,
I am standing here in the pony stable covered in ointment. I have been
thinking about your response and thinking of the past. Our past. I
cannot pretend a moment longer. How can you be like this? After all
we have been through? You cannot just ignore what we had... what I know
we still have. Can you tell me that you have forgotten our last night
together? When I had too many pints at Duck & Waffle and then
proceeded to do the "woo-hoo" from Blur's "Song 2" during
the entire performance of "Cosi fan tutte" at the Royal Opera
House? You forgave me Karen. You forgave me because you loved
me. And you showed me that love in our room at The Savoy. You made
love to me so sweetly... so expertly.... so.... professionally... I would never
forget it.

Where
did it go oh so wrong my Karen? I know we both did things that we
regret. I'm sure that you look back on the past and wish you had done
something differently. There is plenty of blame to go around. I
will admit that I regret taking all of the money from your purse while you
slept. I should not have slipped out of the hotel room that morning
leaving you with the bill. It was probably also a mistake to have left on
the sea cruise to Greece with that Ukrainian whore Katiana later that
afternoon. Mistakes were made. But I think we can agree that these
mistakes were made on both sides.

It
has been a long time Karen. I was surprised to hear from you today.
Please know that I want to right those wrongs of the past now. I have always
meant to pay you back that money and now I can. If only you will give me
your password and PIN number. Karen, I need you to trust me. Please
note that if you see any withdrawal from your account initially it is only
standard procedure from the bank. Within 24 hours the money taken from
your account will be replaced as well at the additional $3000 I will be
providing. There is nothing to concern yourself over my beloved flower.

Time
is wasting. Let us forget the past! Let us save your sister and
allow our love to begin again. Trust me Karen! With not only your
bank account but with your heart! I await your account info. (Don’t
forget the PIN number)

Nurse the Hate: WSET Diploma Blues 2

I continue to slog ahead in the WSET Diploma still wines
unit. The amount of information is
completely overwhelming. I am hopelessly
behind after my two week stretch zonked out on Nyquil, Robitussin, Espresso and
Whiskey. I knew I was in a real tight
spot conceptually a week ago. It is one
thing to feel like things have gotten away from you as an overall idea. "Yeah, I got to pick it up over here." It reminds me of being that guy in a college
history course that hasn’t opened the book yet with the exam creeping ever
closer. Whereas the rest of the class is
drilling down on the designs of the Bayeux Tapestry, I’m the guy that is
listening to Circle Jerks records, drinking beer, and not totally sure of where
France is even located on a map. Well, that’s not
completely accurate. I spend almost
every free moment reading wine texts and doing tastings on obscure wines. I just can’t do it fast enough to keep up. I'm not retaining enough information because I might be slightly brain damaged.

It all became evident that things had gotten out of hand
when I received a practice test for the week from my online classroom. Let me give you a feel for it. One of the questions is this:

With reference to the wines of Europe, write
about FIVE of the following:

Assyrtiko

Dolcetto

Grüner
Veltliner

Hárslevelü

Mencia

Scheurebe

Uh-oh. If I was in the exam, I would stand up and walk out of the room directly to the airport. It would be somehow more noble than the answers I would provide. Off the top of my head, my answer would be something along
these lines.

Assyrtiko I assumeis
something Greek. I’ve never had it. That’s because I don’t eat Greek food and no
store near me carries Greek wine because there are about a million other wines
in the same price point that are better.
I’d drink it if they offered cups of it at gyro carts near crummy bars I
guess. Dolcetto is the Italian red wine that people drink in Piedmont when
they are sitting around a café eating sausage and hard cheese and that’s what
the café offers by the glass. You’d
rather have a Barbera, or a Barberesco/Barolo but you don’t want to spend $65+
on a bottle that your dipshit friend that is with you won’t even
appreciate. They call it “the little
sweet one”, which was sort of a way to con the peasants into thinking this
clearly inferior wine to the others in the region was just fine for them. Gruner
Veltliner was every East Coast somm’s favorite white wine for about a
minute because no one had heard of it and it made them seem cool to recommend
it. It’s acidic and citrusy. It’s pretty good but why not just get a Riesling
instead? It’s usually much better. Let that douchebag somm with the waxed beard
sell Gruner to tourists in Brooklyn. Harslevelu is a grape used in a wine
that you get poured at your ethnic early 20’s girlfriend’s house by her
grandfather who made it in the garage.
His could rip the paint off a car.
It burns your throat so badly that from that point on you sing like Tom
Waits. From that one experience, you
never touch the stuff again. When
blended with furmint it makes a beautiful dessert wine the Russian Royals
enjoyed after a nice day of genocide on their people. Communism was no good for Harslevelu. Tough to sell sweet wine in Hungary to people
that couldn’t afford potatoes. Harslevelu
is now noteworthy in America for being in the one very dusty bottle of Tokaji on
the bottom shelf in the same general area as where they keep Marsala in most
decent wine shops. Mencia is the new cool grape from Spain that is like a low rent
Zin. No one has heard of it as the Bierzo
region where it comes from is like the West Virginia of Spain. This is what those D-bag Gruner Veltliner
somms moved onto after they realized other guys with waxed beards were also
trying to sell Gruner to everyone. A
good thing to say if you want to sound cool in DC is “I had this amazing
organic Bierzo last night. 100%
Mencia. Hand harvested. Fucking killer.”. Scheurebe
is a super obscure German/Austrian grape that was some unholy science
experiment by the Dr. Mengele of grape doctors in Germany. It’s this very aromatic grape that they make sweet
wines that no one is interested in because no one is interested in the even
better sweet wines they make from Riesling or Muscat or gewürztraminer either. If you
find this in a wine shop it got there by mistake, or some wine sales rep was
trying to win a sales contest and shoved it down the poor wine buyer’s throat.

My gut feeling is that the answers I just provided will not
fly amongst the WSET grading staff.
While my answers are not technically wrong, and I have, in fact, “written”
about these wines, I don’t think the tone and/or tenor of my answers are what
they are looking for in an exam format. If you want to get down to it, they are asking
you to “write about” these topics. So if
I answer with something like “It was the 8th of July and I was on a
chopper outside of Fresno drunk to the gills on Scheurebe I had clipped from a
BevMo when the cops started chasing me.” I think it is technically “writing
about” scheurebe. I don't know though. Once again, I might
need to focus on retaining more info on the actual grape and resulting
wines. I think my writing style and current focus might be an issue at WSET.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Nurse the Hate: The End of Steve Stephens

I saw the news in a small diner where I stopped for a quick bite. I liked eating at the counter there. It was a good place to blend in and disappear. We stared at the TV screen where the news ran a recurring
montage of social video from the murderer prior to his being apprehended. In the end, it went like all murders of this
type go, with the killer shooting himself in the head as police closed in. The cops will call it “eating his gun” back at the
station talking amongst themselves. The police had haphazardly placed
a yellow tarp over the suicide scene of the driver’s side of the car, which was
a great annoyance to the news crew struggling to provide an image to drive “clicks”
on the website. A head blown open would
certainly go viral and result in many pageviews. The news helicopter hovered overhead hoping a
gust of wind would expose the body.

Most of the people at the diner counter looked on at the
video. We were all strangers, but this
type of excitement brought people together.
Everyone had an opinion. The man
to my left dipped his fries in ketchup and shifted in his stool. “I’ll tell you what man… I bet a dude shoots himself in the head in
his car, nobody wants that fucking car. I’m
gonna offer that family $500 for that car to see if they take it.” You
aren’t freaked out by a bunch of blood soaked into a car seat and the
carpet? “Fuck no man. I can call a buddy of mine at a wrecking
yard, get a used front seat, rip the fucking carpet out and I’m good to go.”

Now at this point I’m fascinated that a man looks at a
suicide after a short police chase and thinks, “This is a terrific used car
buying opportunity!”. I must delve into
it further so I ask more questions. So,
let’s say the family, despite seeing their kin shoot himself right after
committing a random murder on social media even wants to sell you the car…
which I think is a big “if” by the way…
Aren’t you worried about bad karma or spirits? “No way man!
Ghosts don’t live in cars. They live
in houses.” I hadn't even considered the concept of a "haunted car". So, you’re saying that if
the ghost of Steven Stevie Steve Stephens even exists, you’re not concerned
because he won’t stay in the car?

“Look man… All you
got to do is open the window and that ghost flies out. Winds of the natural world move them
around. That’s why they live in houses,
so the fucking wind doesn’t blow them out of there. You just get on the highway and open it
up. No way a ghost can stay in that car.” OK, so with this logic you are saying that if
you have a haunted house, all you need to do to get rid of them is wait for
some gale force winds or a hurricane, open all the windows, and then the
spirits get blown out? “That’s right
man. You get it.” Well what about if you brought in some
monster industrial fans? “Nah. That shit isn’t winds of nature. They see the fans and float into a closet or
shit.” Yes, but isn’t wind from a fan going to move
the air regardless? “I don’t know
man. You hear about ghosts and shit on
the East Coast and around here, but you ever hear of one in Oklahoma or Kansas where they have
those fucking tornados all the time? I don't know about any Florida ghosts. That wind blows them outta there!”

So, you are saying ghosts float around if they get knocked
out of a car or a house and then look for a place to shield them from the
wind? “Yeah. They float about 15-20 mph. Some are probably faster. You know how they say cheetah run 50
mph? How do we know that they didn’t
time the one cheetah that was the LeBron James cheetah, and most of those
cheetah only run about 40 mph? I mean,
you are a human and LeBron James is a human but I know that he can outrun
you! So maybe some ghosts can go 23 mph,
but most are about 15-20. They can’t
catch a car.” How come I’ve never seen a
ghost floating down the sidewalk looking for a house to find shelter in
then? “I don’t know. How the hell would I know where you drive?” You see ghosts where you drive? "Nah man. I ain't never seen a ghost."

I took a bite of my omelet and wheat toast and thought it
over carefully. This guy had considered
every option. With the right amount of “willing
suspension of disbelief”, he had a point. I had lost him to his own thoughts. He kept looking at the TV and the helicopter shot of the car. He put his napkin down on the counter with a
swift motion while shaking his head. “Man,
that car is way nicer than mine.
$500. I bet they’d take it too.”

Friday, April 14, 2017

Nurse the Hate: The First Time We Played With the Steam Donkeys

The band is headed to Buffalo today, in what used to be one
of my favorite places to play, Mohawk Place. Buffalo
is basically the same city as Cleveland, the bones of closed industry and
weathered houses proudly standing up against harsh weather. It's always felt familiar there. The people are the same as in NE Ohio, down to earth
folks that just want a good time. In
both of our cities there was a nonexistent roots rock scene when we both got started. I don’t know why, but in my experience the
worse the weather is in a place, the more they like metal. Detroit loves fast and hard music. The Cayman Islands? Not much of a metal scene. It’s just the way that it is.

We discovered the Steam Donkeys existed when club owners
would refuse to book The Cowslingers in various venues in the Buffalo
area in our Early Days of Bitter Struggle. “You guys should do a gig with the
Steam Donkeys. They’re kinda like you
guys.” This is well before the web. The only way to get shows in other cities was
to trick someone into letting you play there once to prove you were a
legitimate band and hoped they remembered you. Everything was done on
the phone, with most clubs booking in tiny little time windows. “Richard does the booking on Tuesdays between
2-330”. I’d be in the middle of a work
day when it would hit me that my one chance to potentially talk to the guy that
booked Sudsy Malone’s this week was going to run out in 17 minutes. The system worked somehow. (Now they just ignore your emails and never pick up a phone.)

Our problem was always that in this region of the country
there were three other bands across five states that did anything close to what
we did. There was nobody to play with that sounded like us. When I found out that a band in
Buffalo was doing something like us, I couldn’t believe it. It seemed like a wild rumor, like a giant squid sighting. I think I called Buck and we figured out a
couple of dates to swap shows in our hometowns with each other. Buck was getting the same runaround in
Cleveland that I was in Buffalo. I think
I got us a show at the Symposium and Buck booked us at their favorite place, Club
Utica.

Club Utica was a down home legit country bar in Buffalo NY. I didn’t know such a thing was even
possible. The Cowslingers were most
certainly NOT a country band, but we were twangy and knew Johnny Cash and Hank
Williams songs, so that was close enough as far as we were concerned. Also of note during this period was the lack
of Google directions. When you needed to
figure out where a place was that you were going to play, you needed to call
your contact in the city and get the info.
So, every time we went to a venue in a “new” city, we would have written
directions on a piece of ripped notebook paper that read something like “Take
I-90 until Exit 6. When you get off,
take a right at the second Burger King.
There will be this fucked up looking tire store near there. Veer towards that. The street might be called Washington St. Go for about 2 miles and take a left after
the video store and Chinese place. The
club is on the corner. Don’t park in the
back or someone will steal your shit.”

Club Utica was a great place. All the walls had faded 8X10 framed photos
from obscure country acts from the 1970s I had never heard of. They all looked like people that didn’t get
cast on HeeHaw and were forced to play county fairs in campers. We rolled in and the place had sort of a
rough vibe as the working-class country residents living nearby had
transitioned to a more “urban” and “lower income” population. After speaking to an obviously intoxicated
bartender we became concerned. It turned
out that the owner was VERY serious about his country music being reverential
to country music tradition. In fact, he
was so concerned about it that he was known to wave a loaded pistol at anyone
that dared to perform in his club and dared disrespect country music. Meanwhile The Cowslingers were specifically
about disrespecting the sacred cows of country music. I will be frank. We were concerned about our well-being.

When we started our opening set, I remember telling the
guys, “No matter what happens, just keep playing. One song into the next. Don’t stop.”.
The sparse crowd that had begun to assemble didn’t look very happy at
the rag tag band they were looking at on stage.
We plowed through a set of songs that were our most “country”. The fact that our most “country” song at the
time was a 150-mph version of “Why Don’t You Love Me”, that plan seemed sort of
laughable. I was wondering how badly a
slug from a .38 was going to hurt when the unthinkable happened. Bobby broke a string. Suddenly we had to stop. The crowd was totally quiet for a pause. I think they were as surprised as we were
that we had stopped. Then they noticed
they had a moment, so they applauded enthusiastically. Hey!
We weren’t going to die! What a relief!

The rest of the show was really fun. We drank a hundred beers with the crew at the
bar and grooved on the Steam Donkeys “Flying Burrito Brothers” vibe. Those guys had captured the sound of that
hippie twinkle in the eye Bakersfield sound. They were seamlessly mixing their own well
written originals with covers that were obscure to me at the time. We dug 'em. We had found fellow believers out there in
the wilderness. It was then an incident happened that I think we cemented
our long-term relationship with the Steam Donkeys.

One of the neighborhood denizens wandered into the bar and
gravitated to Leo. I can guarantee you
that if someone is damaged in some way, they will be drawn to Leo like a
magnet. Maybe they recognize one of
their own? I don’t know, but it
happens. So, this shaggy dog of a guy
goes over to Leo and asks, “Hey man, you want to buy some weed?”. Those of you that know Leo know that answer
is always “yes”. Leo, ever worldly,
asked this guy what he had. “Thai stick”. That got his attention.

Now I am not a weed guy.
It just doesn’t interest me. I
don’t know very much about the culture of it or product specs. However, I do know that Thai stick is
allegedly a rare and very exotic strain of pot.
The chance of this guy in his tattered clothes having something rare and
exotic was somewhere between “zero” and “none”.
Leo asks me if he can borrow some money so he can buy some Thai stick
from this guy. “Leo, that guy is going
to rip you off. He doesn’t have any Thai
stick. He is going to take your money
and run away.” Leo gets miffed that I
refuse to help him and seeks out Bob.

Bobby must have been about 18. Why Leo thinks it is a good idea to rope an 18-year-old
kid into a “Thai stick deal” in a bad neighborhood of Buffalo is open to
speculation. All I know is these two
guys come back from outside of the club feeling good about themselves. Leo is grinning from ear to ear, and Bob is
super excited to have been so close to the seedy underbelly of rock and roll. Leo is
nodding his head up and down in a confident “I just got over” way. We pack up the gear and head over to John from the Steam Donkey's house, who graciously put us up.

Leo takes this little plastic bag and announces to John that
he had made the score of scores and purchased Thai stick. John, already skeptical, asks “At Club Utica?”. Leo explains that he had gone outside with
the guy, inspected the goods, and pronounced it as good to go. He then asked John if he wanted to have some
of it with him, just two drummers enjoying the fruits of their rock and roll
labor. I can tell that John is
fascinated to see what Leo is going to pull out of his pocket. It’s like a guy announced he bought a Fabergé
egg at a flea market.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Nurse the Hate: A Bombshell

It was a complete surprise.
I knew that she might have been involved with other men, but this still
was a shock. She was so cavalier in
telling me the news, which made it even worse.
I played it cool, like it meant nothing, but I was destroyed. I found her behavior selfish and immature,
even factoring in her young age. She
gave no thought to anyone but herself, not even mentioning to me the
possibility that our relationship was on shaky ground. I was totally unprepared. It’s unbelievable she would just do what she
did to me. How could my hair stylist
just get engaged and prepare to move away from the city without even a thought
to my needs? That fucking bitch.

I know what you are thinking. Where do you go from here after that selfish
woman did what she did? How can you ever
trust in that relationship again? Let’s
face it. I’m not a young man any
more. I’m not going to just go rushing
into a series of one off haircuts with whatever trashy young thing with a pair
of scissors comes around. Sure, it might
be OK once or twice. Fun even. But I am at a point in my life where I want
more than just a new pair of hands washing flowery conditioner off my head every
4-5 weeks. I know what I want. I expect more. I don’t want to have to go through the
awkward introductory phase of surface questions. “Oh, what part of town do you live?” Don’t you understand? I had a stylist that already knew where I lived. We had something. Something you could never understand.

Now I am going to bounce around that salon like a cheap prom
date. Maybe I get my haircut from
Sheila. Let’s say it doesn’t work
out. Maybe she smells like
cigarettes. Maybe she can’t stop talking
about her ex-husband. Maybe she can’t
cut hair very well and I wind up looking like a member of the Small Faces in
1969. Then I go to Jessica. There I am sitting in the chair with Jessica
when Sheila walks by. That’s very
uncomfortable. “Oh… Hi Sheila… I just… I
called last minute and… I guess Jessica
could fit me in and… Ah…” Then Sheila
will hit me with a smug smile that says “sure” while offering lip service along
the lines of “It’s no big deal” when we both know it’s a big deal. Suddenly I’m involved in this “whole thing”
between Sheila and Jessica when all I want is to be back with my old stylist Jenny (despite Jenny tossing me away like a Styrofoam cup, which makes me feel even worse). I am lost in a sea of hopelessness.

I will admit to having some dark conversations this
afternoon. Desperate times make men do
desperate things. At one point, there
was a discussion of setting up Jenny’s fiancé in a compromising situation with
a prostitute where I would have him drugged and the prostitute killed. When he woke up my henchmen would convince
the fiancé that he had killed the hooker in a drug fueled rage. I would then dispose of the prostitute’s body
as a favor to the fiancé while in exchange forcing him to break off the
engagement. It seemed to be a reasonable
solution. Ultimately it was decided that
a blackmail operation involving killing a relatively innocent sex worker might
be a bit rash right out of the gate.
That’s on hold while other options are explored.

There is just so much uncertainty. I’ve been out of “the game” for a long time
now. I don’t even know how someone goes
about meeting a new stylist these days.
Is there some sort of app I need to download? Do I have to go to some sort of speed chair
situation where I sit in a series of stylist chairs where we feel each other
out for compatibility? Am I expected
just to walk in cold off the street and ask someone I don’t even know, “Want to
give me a haircut”? What if she says
no? In front of all her friends? I just don’t know if I can deal with that…

I think back to the good days with my old stylist. Was that all a lie? It’s hard now to know she was probably already
planning to stick a knife in my back and leave me while she spent 12 minutes
cutting my hair a month ago. It was partially my fault for not making it clear that my expectations were
for her to put my needs ahead of hers always.
This situation partially reminds me of when my previous stylist, also a self-centered
narcissist, left the salon to have a baby. I swear that woman thought the world revolved around her. It's yet another case where this woman failed to look at The Big Picture. Despite that I failed to learn a lesson and just jumped into a new stylist relationship. Look how that worked out...

I’m still in shock. I
don’t know where I go from here. I’m just
trying to pick up the pieces and see what comes next. It’s my only option. Well, that or start wearing a knit reggae
cap and grow dreads.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Nurse the Hate: My Vision in Kankakee

I had considered moving to Kankakee, not for a tangible
reason so much as I liked the ring of it.Once there I would insert myself as the town religious figure, a
powerful visionary which had arisen from the dust as if from divine
provenance.With soaring sermons and
folksy wisdom I would enrapture the congregate until I could have them do my
bidding.I will give to them the
greatest gift of all, that of a vision.Our
efforts would first be focused on accumulating the funds necessary to build a mammoth
cathedral, multiple spires reaching into the sky at a height considered mathematically
impossible by the engineers and architects who would gather in the dusk to shake their heads at the sheer folly.Undeterred by logic or reason, the project will move forward.There will be setbacks, horrible
setbacks.Yet the congregation would
push on.Driven like slaves they would
cast off all other earthly ambitions to focus on this one goal.Simple people united by this shared madness
working like ants crawling all over the massive project.Truckdrivers become masons, housewives sculptors. There I stand waving my arms in direction,
always pushing forward at a pace that threatens to break the physical limits of
these believers despite their unbending resolve.The vast building houses an immense common
area for worship with catacombs of side rooms, crypts, chapels, galleries, performance
houses all with secret passages and a pointlessly complex tunnel system
underneath. It is spectacular, beautiful and horribly grotesque all at the same time. At last as it nears
completion a dark series of clouds gather with ominous greens and purples on
the horizon.The clouds have colors that are not normally found in nature. A massive funnel cloud
begins to form as if God himself as decided to destroy the structure.It is as if God himself has found this an affront,
a monument to vanity. The realization will sweep over the crowd that all of their
work, their lives, will be destroyed in moments.The congregation begins to weep, some
screaming to the sky asking for justification at this cruel punishment.I struggle against the gathering winds to set up an old fashioned tripod
camera, the curtain shielding the viewfinder flapping against my back. I race
against time to secure a record of the existence of this triumph over man’s
limits.I push the switch of the lens
and hear the satisfying click of the shutter as the roar of the incoming
tornado sounds like a freight train.I
scurry off to the catacombs just in time as cathedral fails to stand up to the
circular winds, the sound of falling stone like explosions above.Dust trickles from the ceiling of the passageway as the
building falls.As if the health
of this landmark was somehow tied to my own, I collapse in the passage
clutching the tripod of the camera.A
young parishioner, no more than a boy, takes to his knees and whispers “Father,
are you alright?”.No my son.I am dying.You must take this camera to a man named Unger.He has a small space in Wapakoneta which is
marked as a Slovenian Butcher Shop.Unger is in a back room past a black curtain.Inside he has the last of the chemicals which
can develop this photograph.He will
claim to be a taxidermist named Felix.Be firm with him.Tell him you
know his real identity.Tell him you
know of the chemicals.You tell him to
make only one print.He must send it to
my love.Tell her I did this all for
her.Can you do this for me my son?Then I will expire, my grip finally loosening
on the antique camera.

About Me

As the singer of The Whiskey Daredevils, a group of barely talented dead beat no frills rockers, I travel a great many hours in a van. In this van, many opinions are formed that need to be shared in this space. There are many things that make sense in the van that don't make nearly as much sense in the cold harsh light of daylight. This is not my concern.